A guardian. Just uttering the word felt like an ill-fitting tunic, too large in the shoulders, too tight across the chest. Lysander Thorne, scholar of forgotten lore, now found himself burdened with a charge he neither sought nor fully understood.
Each sunrise brought lessons in ancient Aethelred scripts, forgotten glyphs of the Old Empire. Each sunset drew him to Aethelred's Sanctum, a place of hushed whispers and medicinal scents. His own studies, once the singular focus of his meager existence, now suffered. Half-attended lectures, unfinished translations piled high on his cramped dormitory desk.
Head bowed, Lysander entered the sanctum's sterile halls. He anticipated the usual flurry. Lord Kaelin Veridian, ever impatient, would bound out from his room, a lean hound seeking its master.
“They speak of another grafting, Lysander! Another stretch of skin torn from my thigh, they say. Gods, the pain will be infernal.” Kaelin launched into his litany, words tumbling out with a child's raw frustration. “And the food here! A peasant wouldn't feed this gruel to their pigs. My stomach is hale, my appetite keen, yet they starve me with tasteless slop!”
Kaelin's face, though drawn with recent suffering, contorted into a genuinely pitiable mask. Lysander sighed, reaching into his satchel. A faint, cloying scent of roasted fowl and spiced bread already clung to the leather. His lip curled, a fleeting expression of distaste. He hated the way it permeated everything. Yet carrying the prepared meal openly through the Sanctum's pristine halls would have been worse.
“What is it?” Kaelin asked, his voice laced with a raw hope Lysander pretended not to notice. A flicker of something in his eyes—a canine eagerness, perhaps, a tail drooping in his peripheral vision. Disgusting. The thought repulsed him. He banished it instantly.
A lacquered wooden box emerged from the satchel. Kaelin's gaze, previously dull with self-pity, brightened.
“A midday repast,” Lysander stated, his tone carefully neutral. “They assured me your condition permits such fare before the next procedure. You may indulge.”
“A repast?” Kaelin repeated, a strange wonder in his voice.
“Do not imbue it with unwarranted significance,” Lysander warned, perhaps too quickly. “A street vendor near the west gate offered it. Nothing more.”
That lie tasted bitter. He had spent a full hour, a precious hour, navigating the labyrinthine alleys of Vesper's lower city, searching for a purveyor known for preparing meals both palatable and suitable for convalescents. The thought that he had gone to such lengths gnawed at him. He wished only to perform a simple act of pragmatic kindness. Nothing more.
Yet even that seemed to be enough for Kaelin. A barely functional right hand rose, scratching frantically behind his ear. The skin there, Lysander observed, was flushed a vivid crimson. His gaze drifted lower, to the hand itself. The pinky, ring, and middle fingers curled inward, locked in a grotesque mimicry of their former dexterity. A pang, sharp and unexpected, pierced Lysander's chest. He looked away, but the image lingered.
“…Thank you, Lysander.” Kaelin's voice, usually booming or petulant, came out hushed, almost reverent. Their eyes met for an instant, Kaelin flinching as if caught in a forbidden act, then busying himself with the ornate clasp of the lunchbox. A feigned clumsiness, perhaps. As if he wished his observation of Lysander to remain unnoticed.
Kaelin attacked the food with a desperate vigor, stuffing morsels into his mouth like a famished wolf. A mess formed quickly, crumbs and sauces spilling onto the pristine linen. Lysander, exhausted, leaned back against the plush velvet chaise, watching the spectacle.
Three fingers remained stubbornly bent, useless. He couldn't discern if the impairment was real or merely an act designed to elicit sympathy. He moved closer, a strange impulse guiding him. Reaching out, he gently relieved Kaelin of the spoon.
“What do you desire next?” Lysander inquired, his voice low.
“Anything,” Kaelin mumbled, food still clinging to his lips.
“The roasted fowl?” Lysander offered, selecting a choice piece.
He held a strange responsibility, a scholar's duty, to believe in Kaelin's wounds. Kaelin, lips smeared, chewed slowly. His head dipped, and a faint, unsettling smile played upon his face. Lysander could not fathom it. How could this wild, injured noble, whose fingers would never again grasp a quill with ease, whose back and thigh bore the ragged marks of the surgeon's blade, still find cause for such amusement? A deep, internal shudder went through Lysander. Were it he, he would wish only for oblivion. He lifted the spoon again, offering the tender fowl. Kaelin ate, still smiling, a maddening, unwavering light in his eyes.
Lord Kaelin Veridian unsettled him profoundly.
---
Lysander's reasons for bringing the meal extended beyond mere human kindness, though he would never admit it aloud. The true impetus lay in an earlier encounter, before his arrival at the Sanctum that evening.
This visit marked the second time since Lord Kaelin's most recent skin grafts. Lysander still carried the guardian's pass, a gilded token of his unwelcome authority, feeling its weight like a brand. He had encountered Kaelin's birth family but thrice within these hallowed walls. Once, the Patriarch Veridian had paid a fleeting visit. Twice, Lady Veridian had graced them with her presence, her manner excessively solicitous towards Lysander, as if thanking him for shouldering the very burdens she had so willingly cast aside.
Kaelin had merely rested his chin upon his hand, watching his mother's retreating back with an unreadable expression. Lysander's purpose had been simple: to gather Kaelin's belongings from the estate, some small comforts to alleviate the crushing tedium of confinement. Nothing more. He understood the suffocating ennui of a sickroom better than most. He had known, firsthand, what was truly needed. He told himself it was not sympathy. Never affection.
That day, rather than returning to his humble dormitory, Lysander had sought permission to commute from his borrowed chambers within House Veridian's estate. On his way, he had diverted to Kaelin's personal suite. The sprawling mansion still offered its cold welcome. But Lady Isolde, Kaelin's sister, did not.
Leaning against the polished ebony frame of Kaelin's chamber door, Isolde's voice was brittle, devoid of warmth. “Still hovering about Kaelin, scholar?”
Lysander harbored little warmth for Isolde either. How could she, Kaelin's own blood, neglect to visit him even once? Her brother lay wounded, perhaps irrevocably. An instinctual, almost archaic sense of familial duty recoiled within him. He judged her. Unintentionally, unconsciously, the judgment formed. Realizing it, Lysander clamped his jaw shut, forcing more of Kaelin’s scattered possessions into his satchel.
“Indeed.”
“He truly has taken a mad turn, hasn't he? That lunatic is utterly obsessed with you.”
Lysander's hand froze. A strange, cold prickle ran down his spine. He turned, as if drawn by an invisible thread.
“…Obsessed with me?”
“Does that discomfit you, Lysander? Or do you find some twisted pleasure in the notion?”
“I merely inquire.”
“None merely inquire, scholar. One asks because one desires to know.” Her voice, a dry rustle of silk, held a note of contempt. Lysander feigned deafness, dismissing her. Yet she drew closer, uninvited. The Veridian family, he mused, possessed a singular talent for overlooking others. Isolde, Kaelin, even the Patriarch.
“Tell me, where did you vanish after the academy's commencement?”
“I secured a position.” The whole Archduchy, he knew, must have gossiped about his abrupt departure from the usual path of the scholars.
“Not that I sought the information,” Isolde continued, her eyes fixed on some distant point. “But Kaelin… he quite lost himself. The man, who never once darkened the doors of a temple, was found praying, then screaming. Not long after, he tore apart the sacred Vesperine Rosary his father gifted him, uttering blasphemies Lysander Thorne would scarcely believe.”
“A rosary?” Lysander's brow furrowed.
“Aye, that trinket. He cherished it once, spoke of it as a bond with the Patriarch. Then he called the Divine a 'mangy cur' and worse. He barricaded himself in his chambers for days. Our house, for a blessed period, knew quiet. The fool cannot even discern the true villain.” Her mocking tone abruptly cooled, sensing Lysander's rigid posture.
“What is this? Your face is flushed.”
“It is not.”
“Liar. You truly care for him, Lysander? You harbor feelings for that madman?”
“I told you, no.”
“…By the Fates.” Isolde gasped, covering her mouth with a hand, feigning horror. “You are truly lost. Unhinged.”
She continued to needle him, despite his denials. Lysander, suddenly incensed, yanked the satchel's drawstring tight. He wanted to lash out, to challenge her. “Why did you speak of him thus? Your father referred to Kaelin as his second son, not his heir.”
“What arcane nonsense are you uttering now?” Isolde scoffed, turning away.
---
A glaring contradiction. Lysander knew it. Master Elian, his former tutor, had once remarked, with exasperating accuracy, that “Lysander Thorne, for all his stern resolve, invariably finds himself performing acts of peculiar kindness.” No matter his stated intentions.
Now, however, he clung to an excuse. The raw, brown scars blooming across Kaelin's back, a map of suffering etched into flesh. Just as Kaelin found himself unable to meet Lysander's eyes, Lysander could not bring himself to gaze upon that ravaged landscape.
“Lysander.” Kaelin’s voice, raspy now, drew closer.
“Yes?” Lysander responded, feigning indifference, yet every nerve was strung taut. He listened.
“Then… may I believe in you?”
His heart plummeted, a stone cast into a dark well. A knot tightened in his stomach. A suffocating pressure seized his chest. The words almost escaped him, a desperate, unspoken plea: *Why not?*
The impulse halted him, sharp and sudden. His true, carefully guarded thoughts had nearly breached the dam. *Lysander Thorne, you are a fool.* He clenched his fists, swallowing the volatile question, burying it deep. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them.
“Then instead, I shall believe in you.” Kaelin's declaration came, startling in its unexpected twist. His voice mingled sorrow with an unsettling joy, like a supplicant receiving a revelation. How else could one describe him? Lysander did not comprehend the words. Yet he did not withdraw his hand. Did not flee. The suffocating weight on his chest now did more than squeeze; it pierced, a cruel blade.
“I am an atheist now, Lysander. Truly, you prove far more instrumental to my wretched life than any distant deity.”
“Silence that blasphemy!” Lysander hissed.
“You profane the divine with every breath.”
“No, that is untrue!” Kaelin protested, almost frantic. “I was raised in devout reverence, you know!”
“Then what was that declaration just now?”
Kaelin waved his hands wildly, desperately, as if his very existence depended upon Lysander's belief. A whine crept into his tone, raw with the threat of tears. If Lysander denied him, Kaelin might indeed weep. Caught off guard, Lysander remained speechless.
Then, as if making a momentous decision, Kaelin slid from the chaise, dropping to his knees.
“Then I shall demonstrate.”
“Kaelin! What madness possesses you?”
A large, surprisingly strong hand gripped Lysander's foot. He had been sitting with one leg propped carelessly on the chaise, and the sudden tug sent him sliding forward, precariously balanced on the edge of the seat. His foot, suspended in the air, was now firmly held. Kaelin's gaze fell upon the faint, crescent-shaped scar on Lysander's sole, a mark from broken glass in his youth. Kaelin's brow furrowed. And then, to Lysander's utter disbelief, Kaelin's eyes welled with moisture.
Lysander recoiled, a gasp catching in his throat, attempting to wrench his foot free. Before he could escape, Kaelin lowered his head.
“What are you—”
“In the Father's name, the Son's, and the Spirit's.”
Cold fingertips brushed against Lysander's ankle. A sharp ache, both physical and unsettlingly deep, shot up his calf, coiling in his gut. What depravity was this? Lysander tugged again, but his strength abandoned him, his limbs suddenly leaden. Kaelin looked up once, his gaze piercing, a strange, unwavering intensity in his eyes. And then, with a face utterly devoid of revulsion—like a fervent acolyte touching a sacred reliquary—
“I greet the Lord.”
Kaelin pressed his lips to the tip of Lysander's foot. Fine, soft hair brushed against Lysander's ankle, a disquieting tickle. The gentle press of Kaelin's mouth, warm and insistent, moved against the base of Lysander's toes.
“S-Stop this….” Lysander mumbled, throwing an arm over his face, as if to ward off the sight. Kaelin's right hand, the one with the useless fingers, tightened around Lysander's ankle. And in that moment—
Lysander ceased his resistance. Three weak fingers, an almost delicate, fragile grip, tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that had cursed the Divine but moments ago now traced a fervent path up his calf.
Lysander did nothing to stop him.
That was when he knew. This relentless, incurable malady—this nightmare of his eighteenth year—still held him captive. And it was far from over.